


The Doctor and The Innkeeper

by typewrittencurlie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - America, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Demisexual Sherlock Holmes, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Everyone Needs A Hug, Jim Moriarty is a Little Shit, John Has Issues, John Watson Has PTSD, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pansexual John Watson, Pining John, Protective John, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Sherlock Has Secrets, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has a Nightmare, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock's Past, The Author Regrets Nothing, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:42:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23431129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/typewrittencurlie/pseuds/typewrittencurlie
Summary: American Alternate Universe, just a bit of me messing about with my favorite idiots....-----John Watson left his heart in the war, though his bitch of a 'girlfriend' thinks he belongs to her, and she's pregnant, so he couldn't exactly leave her. Deciding that the best strategy to fall in love - with the exact opposite of who he had lost, no less - was for them to take a long holiday in the village of Willow Pointe. He wasn't expecting, however, the keeper of Baskerville Inn to turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to him.A lot of people fear Sherlock Holmes will always be alone, ever since he lost his only lover. As soon as John Watson comes to stay, everyone can see how their damage compliments each other's, and the little costal Massachusetts town isn't going to let the good doctor rest until their favorite British transplant is in a lasting relationship again.
Relationships: John Watson/Original Female Character(s), Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. Why Am I Even Trying With Her?

John Watson, recently invalided home from the war, limped away from the tiny airport in Massachusetts, while trying to manage the four large suitcase of his girlfriend, along with his own duffle bag. Said 'girlfriend', Kathy, walked alongside him, not paying the smallest bit of attention to his struggles, tapping away on her phone. "Kath, give me a hand?" He grunted, as he tried to fit her bags into the boot of the waiting taxi. She gave him a look that clearly said that she couldn't be bothered, and climbed into the cab.

"Christ." He managed to somehow close the boot over his duffle, while he continued to tell himself that this was exactly what they needed, time together without distractions, so he could somehow fall for her, despite his broken heart.

His sister Harry raved about the small town called Willow Pointe, and it's inn, situated near the Atlantic ocean. John couldn't believe his luck when he was told the man who ran Baskerville Inn would make an exception for them, and let out a room he rarely allowed anyone stay in. John had immediately booked them for two weeks, and made sure he could use up all of the over hours he'd earned at the clinic, feeling a slight rush of _something_ , something very similar to happiness... Odd, though, he'd barely been able to drag himself to the office most days; it was the only thing that kept him from staying in bed every day.

He really needed to go back to therapy, but Kath had called him weak for needing help with the PTSD, and the depression left by _his_ absence. Not to mention the strange feelings about the fact that he was going to be a father in five months...

"John, I don't like it here. It's so dull," Kathy whined as the car pulled away from the airport slowly, and he couldn't have disagreed less.

"It's picturesque. Just give this a chance, Kathy, for the baby. I booked us a tour of the coast tommorow, please, it'll be fun..." He took her hand, trying to get her to stay, because no matter how much he wished he had never taken her home in a piss drunk state of longing, he couldn't lose his daughter. "Can you feel any kicks yet? You should be able to."

"Little ones. You wouldn't be able to feel them." Kathy dismissively wrinkled her nose at the mention of their child. A lot of people John knew would tell him to leave her, and damn the consequences, but John couldn't do that to the life growing rapidly inside Kathy, his one night stand who had latched on and refused to let him go. He knew he should have been a bit more vocal about the fact that he was going through a loss, and not interested in a relationship, but everything was so damn _tiring..._

John wished he could go to Harry about the depression, but he was a little bit afraid that she would tell him to call her therapist, and see a shrink. He had had enough doctors tell him that he needs medication for the PTSD, he didn't need more fuel to the fire of getting him better. Harry wouldn't let him go, if she knew how bad it was. A grim smile flitted across John's face, as he pictured his older sister packing up his shit and moving him into his old bedroom to stay with her and her wife, Clara. He could bet that the yellow, pink and blue panda bear they'd gotten him when he came out was still on the bed.

If they could see the homophobia that Kathleen displayed on a regular basis, they would remove him from London quicker than he could blink.

John sighed, as he watched the scenic route that the cabbie was taking roll past the window. If Willow Pointe and Baskerville Inn matched the rugged beauty of the coastal Massachusetts countryside, it would be spectacular.

"So, is it your first time to America, mister?" The cabbie asked awkwardly, trying no doubt to diffuse the tension in the small car. He was hardly any more than a kid, late teens by John's guess, and his hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, to combat the small, occasional tremors.

John smiled at him, replying, "I've been all over three continents when I was in the Army, but I'd never hopped the pond. Kathy, have you ever?" John tried to get her to look at him, or give any indication that she wanted more than silence from him.

She didn't even look up from her Candy Crush.

"I'm John, by the way. This is my girlfriend, Kathy."

"Billy." The kid's friendly eyes met John's in the rearview mirror, and they shared a brief moment of companionship. "You know, John, you came to town a bit early. Most of the biking fans don't come into town for another few days. Mr Holmes usually doesn't get guests until then."

"Is there some sort of cycling run though the town?" John found a mild interest bubbling up in his mind. He actually loved to bike at one point in his life. He'd had a great time zipping about London on his carefully maintained road bike, while he did his residency program at Bart's.

"Yeah, it's the annual Massachusetts Tour, Willow Pointe is the beginning of the last stage before the mad dash to Boston."

"That sounds fun. Mr Holmes, what's he like? I've heard a few tidbits from my sister, she honeymooned at the inn." John heard Kathy's soft noise of disgust at the mention of Harry, and he made a note of it, as he tried to keep the peace. 

"Mr Holmes is a bit... reserved. I didn't know him until a few years ago, but he seems like he'd been to hell and back. But he's a good guy, incredibly clever, the only thing that would really set him off is if you did something to his paintings."

"Oh?" Was the elusive innkeeper a secret artist?

"Yeah, I dunno where he got them, or who painted them, but they make his inn into of our own sort of gallery, if it weren't such a small town. But don't ask if you can buy any, he'll tell you no." Billy pulled his cab up to a large Queen Anne style house nestled in the middle of Main Street in the charming town of Willow Pointe. John couldn't help but be amazed at how carefully preserved it was, the soft blue green siding seemed freshly painted, as did the large veranda wrapped around the ground level of the three story house. Thick, mullioned windows peeked out from between the gingerbread molding and the peaked, light gray roof, completing the image of stepping into the early twentieth century.

"Just head in, and check in. I'll get the bags, John," Billy said, killing the engine.

"Thanks, Billy, I appreciate it." John gave him a friendly pat on the back, as he led his irritated girlfriend up the wide steps, and past the sign proclaiming this to be Baskerville Inn and Bee Farm. True to the label, a bunch of fat little honeybees buzzed around in the well kept flowerbeds lining the porch.

John softly gasped as he looked around the interior of the inn, and thought it was even more beautiful than the outside. The grand foyer was cozily decorated, with a pair of chairs in front of the bookshelf-flanked fireplace, which had the most stunning painting displayed next to what John assumed was a prop skull from a theatre. A man's image hovered in foreground of the painting, as he gazed at the restless sea past a rocky shore. The artist had given this striking man idris heterochromia, or the unusual condition of having multicolored eyes. He assumed that it was simply a figment of the imagination on the part of the painter. How could anyone be that beautiful?

"Welcome to Baskerville Inn, Dr Watson, and Miss Clarke." 

John turned to the sound of an alluring, deep baritone voice, and was surprised to see the person who had done the painting had managed to capture the very essence of the stunning man who was behind the front desk of the inn. John felt his long dead heart feebly start to beat as he glimpsed a ghost of a smile on the stranger's face.

"I am Sherlock Holmes, owner and proprietor of this establishment. I have only one rule, that you can observe the artwork in your room, but to touch it is strictly forbidden."

"Are they all as breathtaking as this one, Mr Holmes?" John's question was about to be answered, until he became distracted by the sweet young man who drove them here bringing in their bags. "Thanks again, Billy, you're too kind. Here, I'm sorry for the tense atmosphere." John handed the kid at least forty dollars over what the meter had said when he exited the car. 

"Thank you, John, I appreciate it," Billy replied, as he stuffed the cash into his pocket. He glanced over at the innkeeper, and added in a respectful tone, "I know what you're thinking, Mr Holmes, and I swear, I've been clean for a year now, I'm not losing that."

John suddenly understood the small trembling of the kid's hands was aftereffects of withdrawal from drugs. Kathy looked scandalized at the thought of who had driven the cab for them, and John gave her a stern look, while the other two men quietly bantered. John regrettably wanted to hide again, and felt the grey cloud of his depression start to inch its way closer to him.

Kathy looked around the room, mostly disinterestedly, until her hypercritical eyes fell upon the prop skull laying innocently on the mantle. Her eyes went wide as she whispered viscously, "John, we can't stay in this creepy house, there's a skull on the bloody shelf!"

"Why, yes there is, Miss Clarke. I will put Adam in a different location for you, so as not to make you feel any discomfort. I apologise for alarming you." Mr Holmes' eyes dimmed in pain ad he crossed the floor, picking up the cranium with the utmost reverence, as if the skull was a beloved wife, and with all the delicacy of handling a baby bird. He carried it away, passing the stairs and going through a hallway roped off as off limits.

"Kath, apologise. It probably wasn't even a real skull," John growled, just as the innkeeper returned, his eyes misty for a brief moment.

"Dr Watson, I am afraid that it was indeed a real skull, it was my fault for leaving him on display when I anticipated first time guests. It was undoubtedly frightening, seeing human remains lying proudly upon the mantle piece. I forget sometimes that while it is socially acceptable to have a loved one's ashes, their skull might seem a trifle... strange." He moved back behind the desk, finding the right papers, and then looking up.

"I must also apologise for the short inconvenience of your room not being properly prepared. I have to move a few paintings from it, but you may have your keys now, Dr Watson."

John took a few steps forward, leaving Kathy standing by the luggage and scowling at his back. He could feel her angry gaze upon him, but for once, he felt the need to ignore the sensation. Instead he smiled reassuringly to the man in front of him, placing his hand over his before accepting the key. "Call me John, please. Dr Watson is much too formal."

"I will, John, if you call me Sherlock. At one point there were three Mr Holmeses living in the town, and it was dreadfully confusing." Sherlock smiled hesitantly, just a slight quirking of his lips, though his eyes betrayed him. 

John could read the agonized pain of his loss like a map. It was the same look he saw staring at him in the mirror after yet another nightmare, yet another replay of the explosion that tore his once-stable life to shreds.

"So, _Sherlock,_ you let _junkies_ bring your guests here?" Kathy looked like she was ready to kill as John lingered by the desk. She wasn't used to being ignored.

"Well, it would be rather hypocritical if I refused to, Miss Clarke, seeing as I have been holding a drug addiction at bay for about twelve years." Sherlock's expression was set, resigned to the harsh criticism of his guest, and a brief spark of anger flared up in John's heart. Kathy didn't get to treat people like this. It wasn't right. John was going to put his foot down, starting now, because he couldn't let her hurt this man. He was helping to carry her bloody suitcases, for Christ's sake!

She rapidly climbed up the stairs, only to have Sherlock direct her up the second set. "Let me guide you, Miss Clarke, as you don't know where to go." At the top of the second set of stairs, Sherlock made an immediate right, and opened the door to a perfectly beautiful room. "I apologise for the state of the floor, this was an art studio in one of its former lives."

"It's fantastic." John stepped in, as Kathy sat on the large bed, nestled into a cozy alcove of the space. The large octagonal window had a perfect view of the ocean, and the late morning sunshine streamed into the room through the clear glass. A large settee was placed in front of the window, and a few paintings were displayed on easels throughout the space. John caught a tantalizing peek at pale skin and dark hair, before Sherlock hastily threw an old paint smudged cloth over the stack of artwork.

He carefully kept it covered, as he carried them out to a different room nearby. He returned, muttering another apology. "I'm sorry, I would have had it ready for you, but I had to deal with my distributor, I'd been given a complaint of a broken order of candles, and I lost track of time."

"It's alright, I'm not going to be upset about it." John gave the younger man a gentle smile, to which he blinked in obvious surprise.

"Right." Sherlock looked away, a faint pinkish hue to his pale cheeks. He seemed to have to gather his thoughts, and he straightened up, his mannerisms brisk and business-like. "Breakfast is served at eight every morning, you're on your own in regards to lunch, and a dinner will be available at six. I can advise you to try the chippery on the pier if you are out for lunch. The front door locks at ten thirty sharp. Otherwise, I'll leave you to your own devices."

Sherlock shot a sharp glance over to where Kathy stood sneering at one of the paintings. "Miss Clarke, I feel that I need to warn you that if any of the items in this room are damaged, I will not hesitate to contact the police. Especially the artworks, they are all I have to remember someone I have lost."

She looked up, eyes wide and much too innocent. "I wouldn't dream of it."

John stepped forward, murmuring, "I'll make sure she doesn't. And I'm truly sorry for your loss. You must miss them terribly."

"It gets easier with time, though it will never truly heal."

"A fact I know all too well."

Sherlock blinked, puzzled by the statement, and seemed to search John for clues. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"I was deployed to Afghanistan, but they died in Iraq." John didn't want to know how Sherlock could know about the war. He could tell that he hadn't seen even the smallest tip of the iceberg when it comes to this beautiful stranger, but he was aware of a feeling of wanting to. He actually wanted to get to know Sherlock, and _feel_ again. 

"I'm sorry. I'll let you get settled then, John, Miss Clarke." With a parting hopeful smile, he left, and shut the door behind him.

"He's a total creep," Kathy muttered viciously. She looked ready to snap, as she put her suitcases in the corner, and for once, John wouldn't be a doormat for her cruelty.

"He's grieving. Keeping all of this stuff is a way to hold on to his lost love, quit being so cruel, Kathy," John growled, as he began to unpack his bag, putting his clothes into the dresser, since he was staying for a while. 

"I'm not talking about the shitty paintings, John. He was looking at my chest the entire time! Honestly, can you even see?!" 

John snorted to himself, as he had a good idea what gender Sherlock preferred, and Kath wasn't it. Something about the innkeeper made John feel that he would rather be with a man than a woman, by the way he talked and moved. It was a bit hard to quantify, but he just knew.

"You never fucking believe me, John. You never protect your pregnant girlfriend!"

"He's gay, Kathy. So obviously you don't have anything to worry about. I see no reason to make him uncomfortable, please don't get us thrown out."

"And how would you know? Have you ever met a gay man before? I know you have that - that _sister,_ but gay men are not like her. Pablo at my salon is the opposite of this guy!"

Kathy fumed at him as he continued to calmly unpack his bag, and refused to tell her that he had known a lot of gay men, because that would start the biggest row they'd ever had. He also wanted to keep to himself the memories of the man whose dogtags he wore even at this moment. She wasn't allowed into that part of his mangled heart. She doesn't have any right.

"You're totally fucking spineless, John, you know that? I know that the only reason I'm with you is the brat you put inside me."

As Kathy stormed out of the room, the only thing that John felt was a sense of relief. He pulled out his small bag of toiletries, and went to the attached bathroom, beginning to scrub the grime of traveling off of his face. John knew that he was being badly mistreated by her, but it was, in a way, his fault. He'd let Kathy walk all over him, but she wasn't always like this.

In the beginning, Kathy was a little bubbly thing, hanging onto his life, though he treated her no more than a casual screw, she wormed her way into his life. When he'd had enough, she dropped the bomb that changed everything.

John sighed tiredly, and made his way to the foyer, finding Sherlock writing in a notebook. The other man looked up quizzically, as John collapsed into the opposite armchair by the fireplace, directly across from Sherlock. "Hello, again. Your girlfriend left, and she seemed like she was angry."

"She doesn't have anything to be angry about, honestly." John leaned his head on the back of the chair, closing his eyes, wishing to be anywhere but here when Kathleen returned to the inn. 

"Are you alright, John? Why are you still with her?" John heard the soft thump of the other man's notebook being set on the table.

He sank lower in the chair, shrugging, and muttered, "If I leave her, she's going to kill our baby. I can't let her do that to an innocent person who hasn't even had a chance to live." John was completely miserable in the relationship between the two, but he wasn't going to let Kathy go to get an abortion. It would be all his fault, if she killed his daughter.

"If you don't mind me asking, have you actually seen any proof?" Sherlock cautiously asked, and John cracked his eyes open. "She doesn't show any signs of pregnancy..."

"I haven't seen a sodding clue, but if she is, and I don't believe her, I... She just said one day, when I was trying to break up with her, that I was treating a pregnant woman like right shit. And I just broke. I can't risk my daughter dying because I am miserable..." John sat up, leaning forward, and scrubbing his face with his hands.

"I'm sorry."

Now it was John's turn to look up quizzically, and Sherlock seemed to be genuinely sad for him. Sad that John would be treated like this. Not many people would give a shit.

"You should be with her because you love her, and she loves you. Not because of a cruel trick. Adam, my late husband, had always told me that I could leave him if it ever became too much. I never did, because I was hopelessly in love with him, though it all, and I cared for him until he died from complications from his AIDS." Sherlock bit his lip, looking at John with infinite sadness in his eyes, and John knew that he looked like a weakling, his eyes tearing up at someone else's pain.

For once, John didn't care about what Kath would say, because she was a horrible person.

"I'll get us some tea, I don't drink, and I can tell that you don't, either." Sherlock stood, disappearing for a few minutes, and came back with a fully laden tea tray. He set it on the table, making his own cup, before looking to John for directions.

"Milk, no sugar. Thanks."

"Not a problem, John. I enjoy having tea with a fellow Brit. Last time I had the chance was when a lesbian couple came for their honeymoon. Harry and Clara were very kind." Sherlock smiled gently, reminiscing about the two as he sipped his tea.

John chuckled, thinking of what Sherlock had probably heard night and day while they were here. "Harry's my sister. She told me about this place, when the two of them got back."

"I hope that they will visit again soon, Clara is a brilliant chess player, and Harry promised to sit for a sketch. If I was attracted to women... I could have fallen for one of those two." Sherlock looked up into John's startled gaze. "What?"

"Nothing, it just, I'm not used to someone so open about not being straight. You're so... Fearless." John marveled as Sherlock laughed it off, and he found himself enjoying his lovely voice, and his low, rumbling chuckles. His dead heart beat a little bit more.

"John, most of the people in the town remember my husband, and a few even remember what he was like before the AIDS fully incapacitated him. Everyone here knows what I am. What about you? Are you afraid of people knowing?" Sherlock analyzed him over the rim of his teacup, his gaze gentle, but firm.

"Ah, a little bit... Mainly because Kathy is a bit not okay with people who are different. I wish I could be myself more, but I think the days I could just fancy whomever I want are gone." John nervously drank the tea, as the clock struck five. He knew that at any moment Kathy would walk through the door and start something.

Sure enough, Kathy walked in the door, arms full of shopping bags. But contrary to John's expectations, she acted like nothing had happened. Perfectly chipper, she tossed her hair, smiling as she said, "Darling, I just found the cutest little-"

John cut her off, pissed at the fact that she was doing this to him, making him feel like absolute shit, and he had to know if she actually was pregnant, as he had some serious doubts. "I hope that there's a pregnancy test in one of those bags, Kathleen, but I can tell from your face right now that there isn't." John stood, as his girlfriend spluttered. "Thank you for the sparkling conversation, Sherlock, but I'm afraid I need to do some shopping."

He walked out of the inn without a backwards glance.


	2. An Unexpected Discovery, That Wasn't Very Unexpected After All.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or in other words, Kathleen is a lying bitch.

John walked out the door, and followed his feet to the nearest drugstore, the soft quiet of the world grating on his frayed nerves. He knew that there wasn't a chance in hell that he would still be with his 'girlfriend' if she hadn't gotten pregnant, or at least claimed to be. He grabbed three tests off of the shelf, not caring about the brand, and walked to the register, where the older woman smiled gently. "Nervous, dearie?" 

John exhaled in a rush, sagging against the counter, and felt the drive to figure out the lies he may or may not have been told leave him. What was the point to it all? He clenched his jaw, and fiddled with the chain around his neck that held his lover's mangled dogtags. "I have a feeling that my girlfriend is lying. There's no way she's four months pregnant..."

"I didn't think she was, John." A familiar voice piped up behind him, and John turned around to see the worried face of Billy, who worked here too, apparently. "Yeah, I have a lot of odd jobs 'round town. Saving for college and all that jazz. I'm sorry she's a bitch."

John laughed hollowly, adding, "You don't know the half of it, Billy. This whole thing just makes me wish it was _my_ Humvee that drove over the IED."

"Now you listen here, young man, there's a lot to live for in this world. Just because one person is a bit of an arrogant, terrible human being, doesn't mean everyone is." The woman behind the counter rang up the tests, and put them in a bag for him, and glared. "My husband ran a drug cartel, and do I wish he'd blown my head off, instead of that poor police officer's? No. I found this little place. Find a reason to live."

"Listen to her, John. Mrs Hudson knows a lot about life. And if the bitch isn't pregnant, send her on the next flight home. And stay here for a while, you might find something, or _someone_ who can make you happy." Billy seemed to have an infinite amount of wisdom, when John stopped to think about what he'd said. John smiled at them, and nodded, taking the short walk home to formulate a plan.

Would it really be so bad, if he broke up with Kathy? Even if she was pregnant, there was no way it was his, they'd used protection every time, and it never failed. So he'd send her home, and stay here for the next two weeks. Maybe he'd find a reason to live again.

He had to, because he couldn't let Murray have died just for him to throw away his life.

The sun was sinking lower in the sky as John walked back into the inn, and tossed the bag at Kathleen. He glared at her, and knew there was something else she was keeping to herself, as well as the facts of the so called pregnancy. "Just do it, Kathleen. I don't want to have any idea what else you might be lying about."

* * *

Sherlock watched as the kind, gentle man who checked into the inn earlier that day pace back and forth over the worn parquet floors of the foyer. He every so often shot a glance towards the table between the two chairs, and the three pregnancy tests lying on it, on top of a paper towel. John didn't deserve the treatment he'd received so far from this woman, the one who was perched on the opposite armchair, her foot bobbing and face forcibly blank.

He knew that there was no possible way she was four months pregnant. Her waist was conspicuously thin, in Sherlock's opinion, and her anxiety over John's reaction was the nail in the coffin in his mind. He glanced over at John, and hesitantly brushed his hand across his sleeve, on his circuit of the foyer. "It's been long enough, John."

The former soldier sighed in resignation, and looked at the tests. 

"Not pregnant, Kathleen. All sodding three. We're done." John's voice was deadly quiet, as the woman flinched. Sherlock knew that it was simply an act, though. John didn't have any of the characteristics of an abusive lover, in fact he probably would be the most caring partner someone could have. Sherlock watched as John looked up at the ceiling in despair, muttering, "Why, though? Did you just want someone to have a go at, whenever you wanted?"

Sherlock refused to interfere as they began to shout at each other, ending in John tossing her bags on the porch and calling her a cab to the airport. 

John grimaced, as he shut the door behind his ex, and leaned against it, sliding down to the floor, as Sherlock hesitantly walked over. "John?" He sat on the floor in front of the other man, as John struggled with what he'd gone through in just the past twelve minutes. "Do you want to talk?"

"I don't know why anyone cares. I don't." John had tears seeping from the corners of his eyes, as he leaned his head back onto the door. "Can't believe I actually thought she was pregnant. Murray would be laughing at me, actually... He - he'd be holding me together, cause I'm falling apart..." John was going through so much right now, Sherlock felt the need to do something. He wanted to hold John, the way Adam had held him when he'd had a nightmare. But he'd wasn't married to John, so instead, he settled for placing his fingertips on John's knee, offering the only comfort he could.

"Why did they set the bomb? Why'd he have to die?" He was asking no one in particular, and Sherlock remained silent, letting John get it out. "Murray was another captain in a division stationed with mine. We just sort of fell together... He was so incredible... Then, we came under fire, and his Humvee drove over an IED... Sherlock, I know you never liked Kathy. Why?"

Sherlock sighed, gently adjusting his thick jumper even though it was perfectly settled on his shoulders. "I could tell she was abusive from the moment I saw you with her, John. My brother had a large number of abusive lovers, and I can see the signs. Myc finally found a decent man in this town, and they got married."

"My dad would kill me if I married a bloke. He's an alcoholic bastard. That's why I don't drink. Every time he'd come back from the pubs, he'd beat me and my sister, while spouting homophobic language..." John placed his fingers over Sherlock's, still staring at the ceiling and avoiding his eyes. Sherlock felt a lurching in his heart, as he found himself wanting to see John smile. He wanted to take away his pain, make him happy...

"Can I stay? For the rest of the time I booked? It's so nice here. Peaceful. Exactly what I need right now." John looked at him for the first time since Kathleen left, and his dark blue eyes were so filled with pain, Sherlock couldn't find it in him to say no. Not that he wanted John to leave...

"Of course, John. I know the feeling of wanting someone to return so badly that if there wasn't anyone stopping you, you probably wouldn't be here. If I didn't have my son who lives in Haven General, I would be six feet under." Sherlock missed Scott terribly, wished he could bring him home, and applied for adoption every three months, to no avail. Every time, he would get his hopes up, wait with bated breath by the phone, every time, there would be complete silence from the courts.

"Why's he in hospital? I don't mean to pry," John asked softly, not moving his hand away, instead, he brushed his fingers across Sherlock's, making the taller man's heart stutter with the contact.

"AIDS. And the bloody courts refuse to respond to my adoption request." Sherlock tried to think rationally, though he was having a hard time, because of the nature of the touch, John couldn't possibly know how it was making him feel. He was so touch starved that John's fingers on his was almost overwhelming his brain. "I think that it's a little late to cook, but do you want some takeaway?"

"I'd love some."

* * *

John wandered around the small town after breakfast, Sherlock making sure that he wouldn't be lonely on his own while he visited his son. John promised him he wouldn't do anything rash, but he slightly feared being alone in the house with nothing to do. So he took a long walk down Main Street, admiring the quaint village and its old fashioned charm. 

John stepped inside a gift shop a few blocks away from the inn, lured in by the most wonderful scent. He followed the smell to a large display of candles and honey in the center of the shop, with a large sign pronouncing the products to be from Willow Pointe's own Baskerville Bee Farm. John smiled when he picked up a candle and smelled it, amazed by how much it stayed true to actual lavender flowers.

"Hello," a meek voice next to him said, and he turned to see a mousy auburn haired woman next to him. "Are you new to this town?"

"Yeah, I'm staying at the inn. Does Sherlock make these himself?" John put the candle back, and decided to buy a patchouli scented one. The woman smiled, grabbing the lavender.

"Yes. His bees provide honey and beeswax, and he turns it into everything here. It's all organic. I work downtown at the morgue, and the lavender candles clear the air from all the dead bodies. I'm sorry, that was a bit much...." She blushed prettily, and John smiled at her, trying to put her at ease.

"I'm John Watson. I just flew in from London yesterday, and I'm a doctor across the pond. It's nice to meet you, Molly."

"Willow Pointe might not be the largest town, but we all look out for one another here. Make sure you take care of Sherlock while you stay here, he really needs a friend." John watched her walk to the register, bemused. He supposed that this was not usually the way things worked, but the looking out for the people close to you was a familiar feeling. In the war, the person who was standing next to you was the person most likely to save your life.

It felt like home, this town, so much of the time in Afghanistan, and so much of his life before, when he lived in Fulworth with his sister and Clara. God, he could stay in Willow Pointe for ever, and not miss the bustle of the City, and the only thing keeping him from truly packing up his shit, was the fear he wouldn't be fully welcome to stay here for the long term.

Several hours after he left the gift shop with a small bag of souvenirs, he walked back into the inn, ready to call it a day. Puzzled by the soft, musical humming noise he heard, John followed it to the kitchen, and found Sherlock cooking an elaborate meal, wearing a flowery apron over the usual jumper and chinos. John chuckled softly to himself, watching his new friend as he positively radiated joy.

"You seen a moody, quiet bloke named Sherlock anywhere, sir? He's about your size, but a lot more depressed..." John tried to make the reserved, morose innkeeper laugh with his joke, and surprisingly it worked.

"I'm afraid to tell you he's been kidnapped, but I assure you that I'm more than happy to run his businesses in his stead." Sherlock's eyes positively twinkled as he bantered with John, soft happiness pervading the large kitchen. John hadn't felt like he could breathe this deeply since the bombing, hadn't felt like he was truly living in such a long time... It was this stunningly beautiful man in front of him, he realized. Sherlock could bring such peace to his broken soul, because the sharp, jagged edges of his own damage so perfectly meshed into the gaps.

"You look suspiciously like him, though... God, we're being fools, but I rather like it. Did you get good news about your son, Sherlock?" John perched on the edge of the kitchen table, grinning at him so widely that the under used muscles in his face hurt.

"Yes, John, we're being fools, I have a reason, though. Scott, my son, his viral load is going down. It was a little scary a few months ago, he was so weak..." Sherlock turned, leaning against the worktop, and wrapping his arms around himself. His eyes had a distant sort of sadness to them, but it slowly subsided as he thought of Scott. "He's gotten so much better now. I just want to bring him home..."

John searched for something to distract his new friend, anything at all to get him to smile again. "Hey, how did you know about my past, when you asked me about Afghanistan?" He hoped it would work...

It did, a small smirk pulled up the corner of Sherlock's mouth, as he quipped, "Your haircut and posture read military, and then the tan lines said it was in the tropics. You're clearly a doctor, so you would have been serving. Slight limp was a bit psychosomatic but you did hold your arm awkwardly, so, wounded in action. And you lost your lover, that could only happen in an active war zone. So, it was just a bit obvious... At least it was to me."

"That... That was bloody brilliant. I... God, how can you be just an innkeeper? You could put Scotland Yard to shame." John meant every word. He'd never seen or heard of anyone else who was that damn clever. It was a good thing he didn't use his powers for evil, the world would fall in a day.

"I used to. Until Adam got sick, I would consult with the Yard for their tough cases... But Haven General is the best hospital I found for treating someone with HIV, and I couldn't let the man I loved waste away in some...." Sherlock sighed, ruffling up his hair in agitation, as he asked, "You really liked me deducing you like that? You thought it was.... brilliant?"

"Sherlock, that was the most spectacular thing I've ever heard. Most people just think I'd been in an accident or something, when they ask me questions about the limp. And _no one_ has noticed my shoulder." He smiled, as Sherlock seemed to regain his cheerfulness, and John was glad that he could be there to tell him he was _not_ whatever others said about him.

"Thanks, John. People can be real arse holes, you know?"

"All too well, I'm afraid. Dinner?"

"Half an hour, if you help me with this damn thing. The mixer is busted."

John chuckled, as they worked together to put Sherlock's impressive meal on the table. He felt the grey cloud settle down at a good distance from him, due to the domesticity of the activity. He'd never thought he'd needed _this_ to push the depression away, but by God it did.

* * *

John woke up the next morning, feeling more rested than he had in months... He didn't have a nightmare, he realized, as he looked at the morning sun streaming through the window. The first night since the explosion, that he hadn't dreamt about Ian Murray.... His throat constricted, as his lover's mangled dogtags brushed his knees. He clenched his hair, as he tried to figure out what in the hell that meant.

Something about the way Sherlock understood the pain, even having gone through the same, it made him feel less alone. It made him feel _seen._ Like there was another person on this godforsaken planet who knew that you couldn't just _get over it._

Sherlock could bring him back to the way he felt before he was even deployed... God, he wanted to keep this feeling inside of his chest, this bubbling hope that someday, somehow everything was going to be okay. He wished he could bottle this up, turn it into a tonic that he could take once he got back to the shit life he had in London.

He heard a dim commotion coming from the ground floor, as he pulled on a jumper and a pair of old jeans. Wondering what happened, he walked down the stairs, his stomach quietly rumbling in his early morning hunger.

A good sized group of people stood milling about in the foyer, with Sherlock behind the desk, handing out keys to his new guests. Adam's skull was once more sitting on the mantle, with a few people glancing at the memento with fond expressions. John knew that it was the same group of people who Billy said would come into town for the Massachusetts Tour, and he gave his host a his smile and a small wave, as he made his way to the kitchen in search of a cup of coffee.

A freshly brewed pot stood waiting on the worktop, next to a plate of the small round biscuit like things Sherlock made after dinner last night. John grinned, picking up a honeycake, and taking a bite. His gracious host certainly knew his way around the kitchen.

A small not stood propped up on the coffee pot, telling John to help himself, and he was welcome to anything else he might find in the kitchen for breakfast, because the sudden guests delayed breakfast. The handwriting was a looping, elegant cursive, and it was signed with a small _SH._

John steadily worked his way through the coffee and pile of sweets, leaving a few cakes for Sherlock, who was probably starving after the sudden influx of guests. John poured the remaining coffee in a mug, adding the milk and sugar that Sherlock liked.

His host was collapsed in a chair in the foyer, too tired to move, and John cleared his throat, adding, "Thought you might be hungry," when he looked up. 

Sherlock smiled gratefully, and took a cake and the coffee with a murmured thanks. "Usually the guests arrivals are more spaced out over a few hours... Apparently they pitched in for a shuttle rental. They're getting smarter." He muttered the last bit darkly, as if his guests were going to start planning world domination when he turned his back. John laughed at the notion, picturing a small uprising in the inn, as the other guests began to demand things, and it would escalate until he and Sherlock had to fight off a mindless horde of zombies.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just zombies." John still chuckled even as Sherlock looked like he was questioning John's sanity.

"I'm afraid that I will be absent again today. I have a therapy appointment, and my brother asked me to watch my nieces this afternoon, but I'll be back before it's time to begin dinner preparations... You'll be fine, by yourself?" Sherlock's forehead crinkled up with worry, as John reassured him he was going to be fine alone.

"You don't need to entertain me, Sherlock. Sure, I enjoy your company, and I hope that I can get to know you better, along with the rest of the town. But you don't need to worry about me being by myself, I'm a bit used to it." John smiled, gently handing over the plate of food, adding, "I think that having a bit of time to think about my life is going to do me some good."

"John, I... I find that I want to get to know you better as well. Perhaps we can chat after dinner, over tea?" It seemed like Sherlock was trying to rein in his excitement when John agreed, and he grinned, watching Sherlock stumble to his bedroom, tripping over his feet when he realized that he was going to be late for therapy.


	3. Sorry!

I really want to apologise for the late update, but I'm having a hard time finding the right place of mind to finish this up. I love the plot and the characters in the world I created, but I'm just no longer inspired by the story, at least not enough to finish publishing right now....

It appears that the muse I was taking orders from has shifted to the Supernatural fandom. But it isn't just that, I wouldn't abandon a work unless I have a lot of other stuff going on, like the fact that my mom, who I unfortunately have to live with, is being psychotic....

Just having a rough time with things, but I'll be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to be posting on Sundays from now on, the weekdays are a bit hectic...
> 
> Comments are always welcome, and I hope you enjoyed this.
> 
> Lots of love,  
> Typewrittencurlie


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